The Kit Kat Klub Is Proud To Present: The Broken Soul Of Sally Bowles

Sometimes when I want to wind down and relax, I write psychological profiles of fictional characters. This won’t be interesting to some people, but this is the kind of shit I do for fun. Please to enjoy.

CABARET’s Sally Bowles is the most complex female character in musical theater, and therefore the hardest to play. Many attempt, few succeed in portraying her due to the incredible nuances of the role. For one, Sally doesn’t really exist. She has created a character, someone completely fabricated in name and personality to hide the broken child inside. Slathered with makeup and hair dye, drenched in gin, she flees to Berlin to become one with the stage. Everything from her eyelashes to her smile is unnatural.

She is so afraid of her true self she carves out a personality that is born of debauchery and false joy, her warpaint of red lips and kohl lined eyes protecting her from reality. On stage she is a painted doll, raucous and saucy, but her eyes are always empty. The beauty of the role is Sally’s fragility. She’s delusional, tragic,and sometimes highly unlikable, desperately craving attention but never letting anyone in out of sheer terror of her real self being discovered – a classic case of Borderline Personality Disorder. However she has moments of agonizing clarity.

Her abortion is necessary in her eyes “What a burden for an infant” she mournfully says to Cliff, knowing that she is completely incapable of monogamy or giving up her false sense of security in the theater, because, as she wails in the title song, “When I go? I’M GOING LIKE ELSIE” meaning that the debauchery and sin that has become her entire existence will kill her as it did her friend back in Chelsea. Performed correctly, when she sings this, it should be an agonized, raging sob as she accepts her fate. The broken child will never be healed, the makeup will smear and run with her tears, as she succumbs to never being off stage, never being her true self, and ultimately perishing not because “that’s what comes from too much pills and liquor” but because her shattered inner child cannot be repaired.

The song “Cabaret” should be sung as an impotent rage against the dying of the light. Sally is doomed, her smile a painted rictus of pain. She knows this, but does not believe she has the power to stop it. A broken, painted, dying soul, desperate for love that she is incapable of accepting. As Berlin falls, so does the curtain on Sally’s delusion of a life.

Real American Bloggers: Where Is Our Movie?

Many people are making waves about the “American Blogger” movie that’s coming out soon. I’ve only seen the trailer, which made me almost bust my spleen laughing. And not in a good way. I’m not a movie critic or a studio executive or a screenplay writer. But I am a blogger.

I’m a real life American Blogger. My dye job comes from a box, my food comes from chipping away at the ice in the freezer and excavating a frozen pizza. My “kids” are feline and one is currently climbing the curtains. Again.

I’m a real life American Blogger. I have a soft belly, can’t afford a haircut, my bed is never made, and I’ve been known to eat salad out of the bag. My car is falling apart, my apartment is a mess. I spend too much time thinking my life will never be an interesting Facebook post, and that my non-pedicured nails are starting to resemble a velociraptor.

I’m a real life American Blogger. My parents are getting older, and I’m scared to death that I won’t have them around forever and how to deal with that. I haven’t had a boyfriend in three years, and I had Jolly Ranchers for breakfast.

I’m a real life American Blogger. I’ve been in nine psych hospitalizations, three rehab facilities, a coma, and ICU more than once. More than twice. I take seven psych meds a day, with various side effects. My psychiatrist doesn’t listen to me, my psychologist is a saint. I also have a masters degree in social work, because life is funny that way.

I’m a real life American Blogger. I’m on disability for my mental issues, and deal every day with the stigma of that. People are disgusted by me, call me every name in the book, shamed and humiliated me on social media because they think I’m a waste of space and a drain on society.

I’m a real life American Blogger. I have an incredible support system through family and friends. I have people in my life I have only met on the computer who say they are inspired by me. They will never know how much they inspire and encourage me, even in my darkest hours.

I’m a real life American Blogger. I’ve been writing a blog on and off since 2000. That’s fourteen years of pouring words into a computer because they explode out of me and this is better than writing in Sharpie on the walls. I blog because it has saved my life.

I’m a real life American Blogger. No one will ever make a movie out of my life, offer me advertising space on this little corner of the internet. I may never get married, or have kids. Sometimes I feel that’s a good thing, and sometimes it makes a hole in my heart.

I’m a real life American Blogger. My name is Danielle, and I write. And that’s plenty.

Lady In Red Part The Second: Meet The Contenders

I may need an intervention.

I may need an intervention.

SO! I dug through my makeup collection, which is my biggest addiction and has been since high school, and found all my red lipstick. I, um, have a LOT of red lipstick. I didn’t buy a single one of these reds for this article. They were ALL in my bag. Let my obsession be your guide. And other than the one from Sephora and the one from MAC (both mistakes, as you will see below) none of these cost more than seven dollars at your local drugstore. Some were even less. You do NOT have to pay a fortune for your makeup, you just have to know what’s worth your hard earned money. Let’s begin with the reds, and then move along to the glosses so we can give everyone the PERFECT red lippie.


Rimmel London Lasting Finish By Kate #107: Dry but fabulous. A deep red with brick tones. Perfect under gloss. This is a red that is meant to be noticed


Revlon Super Lustrous Certainly Red #740: Creamy vibrant red. Comes off on everything, but can be controlled by careful blotting.


Revlon Colorburst Femme Fatale #135: This is a chunky pencil that goes on smooth with pink undertones. Not great, not bad. Another smear-factory. I’d pass on this one.


Revlon Just Bitten Lipstain and Balm Gothic: Junk. Do not buy this. The stain is weak and the tip dries out quickly. The balm isn’t as good as regular ol’ Chapstick. A waste of money.


Maybelline The Elixir Signature Scarlet #020: An excellent lacquer. Not as rich as Rimmel (see below) and more expensive than Rimmel, but in a pinch, it’s great. Bright red with slight pink undertones. 005

Rimmel London Exaggerate Lip Liner Red Diva #024: The key to a lasting red is to line AND FILL IN your lips with red pencil. Rimmel offers a cheap and totally serviceable red that will make your red endure all day.


Rimmel London Show Off Lip Lacquer Big Bang: The mecca of reds. A rich, deep blood red, excellent shine, creamy texture. I LOVE this red. And it’s cheap enough to keep one at home and one in your bag. Apply it over the Rimmel liner and you’re good to go all day.


Sephora Kat Von D Collection Hellbent: Crap. Too expensive, weak tone, STICKY. Do not waste your bucks.


Physicians Formula Plump Potion Clear #70: Pretty good. It gives the illusion of plumping, it’s good over a lippie, semi-sticky. Beware if you’re sensitive to lip-tingling.


Rimmel London Stay Glossy Seduce Me #820: Not a hugely impressive finish. Makes a dry lipstick shiny, but not glassy. Good bang for your buck, though, and not sticky at all.


MAC Lip Glass Clear: The ultimate glassy finish (which, for the money, it better be) and I’ve had the same tube for EONS. Takes the tiniest drop for perfect glossy finish. Downside? It’s the stickiest thing ever. Lordo help you if you have hair that is long enough to get stuck in this. It’s infernally gooey. I pass on it 9 times out of 10 because it’s just not worth the stickiness. Sometimes expensive isn’t better.

So there you have it! Go forth and wear red, because you are rad, and you should flaunt it without breaking the bank. Wear red lipstick TODAY!

I Have Blogger Angst, So I’m Going To Write About It On My Blog

Hello, my beloved little squirrels! I’m here today to not only resurrect my over-a-month-long-neglected blog, but to tell you that I have angst. Yes, I have blogger angst, and of course I’m going to tell you about it, because that’s why people HAVE blogs.

*applies thick coating of black eyeliner, lights candles and puts The Cure on iPod*

Blogger angst is a tricky thing. I’ve been staring at a blank screen since February, trying to think of something Important! And Relevant! to talk about, and I’ve come up with bupkus. Sure I could talk about finding Finn splayed out in front of Goddo and everyone and Lulu sleeping IN HIS CROTCH, but that would be gauche, and anyway, I can just show you a picture.

My home has become a den of sin.

My home has become a den of sin.

Or I could talk about my new haircut, and how I’m concerned about it being too emo, but I could just show you a picture of that too.

So. Much. Angst.

 So. Much. Angst.

And pictures of my slutty cats and a selfie hardly count as a blog entry, am I right? So I kept staring at the screen, negotiating with myself.

Me: I have to write something MEANINGFUL. Something DEEP.

Common Sense: Oh please. You just talked about your cats living in a den of sin.

Me: I’m slacking. Blogs are dying. I’m not doing anything interesting. Everything is angst.  I’m going to listen to Disintegration again.

CS: Will you just SHUT UP? Listen, sure you don’t get to go to Disney World because you blog. Maybe thousands of people don’t read you. Maybe you STILL haven’t written your book. But you LOVE writing, and you love the people who take time out of their lives to read it. Quit gazing at your shoes and love your blog for what it is. And get moving, you’re only 309 words in, and you have this weird thing about writing 500 words per post, and seriously, you’re on, like, a million psych meds, NONE of which are helping with your strange OCD tendencies.

Me: I’m NOT gazing at my shoes. I’m not WEARING shoes.

CS: Also, you need a pedicure.

Me: No way. I only get them when I have a gift certificate, and they make me anxious.

CS: How in the name of pants can a pedicure make you anxious?

Me: Another person, a person I do not know, is cleaning my nasty-ass feet. A PERSON WHO ISN’T JESUS.

CS: So it would be kosher if Jesus was giving you a pedicure?

Me: I see what you did there.

CS: I’m way more clever than you are.

Me: You really are. So have we reached 500 words yet?

CS: Nope. I don’t think this blog post is going to score us an all-expenses paid trip to Disney World.

Me: That sucks. I love Soarin’. That’s the best ride. Also the smoking corners.

CS: We know where ALL the smoking corners are!

Me: I know! Happiest place on earth, right???

CS: We’re awesome! And you reached 500 words.

Me: Still no Disney World.

CS: But that’s okay, right? I mean, you’re writing, and that’s what counts.

Me: Damn right. Let’s eat some pizza.

And? That’s how I got over my blogger angst. Sure I don’t make a dime from this. Sure I don’t have thousands of readers or a book or a verified Twitter account. And the bloggers who do? I love you! I think it’s awesome that you did your thing and got what you deserve. Never doubt that. I think I’ll just keep writing. Cause that’s just the dance I do.

Six hundred words. I’ve even exceeded myself. And that’s rad.


My First Kiss Tasted Like Newports: A Valentines Day Story

I had my first kiss when I was 14. It was at a Catholic school dance in another town. I was invited by KG, a girl friend of mine, and I eagerly accepted. Boys! I was 14, boy-crazy, and as socially awkward as a person could be. So I dandied myself up, and went. And that’s where I met Angelo. Angelo was SMOKING HAWT, to a 14 year old, and we danced, and I giggled and was a total teenager and acted the fool. He smoked. I didn’t. So I, in a daze, followed him outside away from the chaperones, to watch him smoke. He was SO COOL. And then he was finished with his Newport and kissed me.

OMG. There is a boy. Kissing me. My life is complete.

We stood in the parking lot, kissing chastely, our 90’s outfits glaring against the moon. He told me he loved me, that I was perfect, that we were going to be together forever. I, being a complete fool, thought “YES!!!!” and started planning our wedding. I was an idiot. But then again, I was 14. Everyone’s an idiot at 14.

There was, as there always was in New Jersey in 1992, a Camaro in the parking lot. Suddenly my back was tilted over it and his tongue was in my mouth. WHOA NELLY. I played along, I didn’t feel scared, everything was fine. But I was a bit overwhelmed. He tasted of cigarettes. He seemed so much more mature than I was. What I didn’t realize at the time was that 14 year old boys are completely controlled by hormones, and 14 year old girls still read “Anne of Green Gables” after their bedtimes. At least in 1992.

He didn’t try anything nasty. He just kissed me. But I panicked. I didn’t know anything at that point about panic disorder or any of my other splendid mental disorders. So I started to freak. I kept kissing him. I liked it a LOT, but I was also wigging in the first sense of the word.

He had nice hair.

He asked me for my number. In the days before cell phones, I’d have to give him my parents’ number, and oh my lordo, then they’d know I kissed a boy. So I did the unthinkable.

I gave him a fake number.

I was such an asshole.

I’m so sorry, Angelo. I know from KG that you’re a perfectly fine 36 year old man with a family now, but there was a night in 1992 that you kissed me for the first time, and I pulled a DICK MOVE on you. I’m glad you’re happy. I’m sorry that my crazy brain was starting to be REALLY crazy, and I’m sorry if we dented that Camaro.

Ah, romance. Happy Valentine’s Day, everyone.

The Douchelor: Crawling On The Bathroom Floor Is The New Sexy

So we’ve separated the wheat from the chaff, and now it’s time to get down to the seriously crazy. The ladies wax non-poetic about how awesome getting a date would be. Clare doesn’t go to bars or clubs. But she does THIS? Okay. JP scoops up Clare and puts a blindfold on her before zooming away. Kinky. They end up at a Christmas tree yard and JP carries Clare over to the middle of the joint. She’s wigging out. As someone who has been snowed in for the majority of the last couple of months, I’m less enthused than Clare.

Bring it, Jay-Pee

Bring it, Jay-Pee

Back at the house, Lucy the Manson girl is super naked in the pool. Just in case you were wondering.

JP and Clare frolic in the snow, because it’s lovely and nice and magical and no one has to dig their car out at the crack of dawn and grrrr. They ice skate and Clare giggles and swoons. The cats scatter as I start to cough and gag.

Commercials! This is new. We have a border around the screen saying “THE BACHELOR WILL RETURN” during the commercials. Thanks, television, I was a little worried for a second there.

We’re back, and JP takes his shirt off (drink) and they hop in the hot tub. Clare talks about her dad. He was great. He was strong. He’s totally dead. She shut herself off when he died. Okay, that’s sad. JP takes this opportunity to cop a feel under the guise that he wants her to feel safe. Boob grab! Drank! She gets a rose. Shocker. Some hipster plays a guitar in the snow and they dance in their bathing suits. You’re going to get sick if you do that in the snow, you dolts!!! The accompanying piano player would rather be in Gitmo than here. Me too, piano man. Me too.

Commercials! Oh Olivia Wilde. I’m sure you use Revlon and not some billion dollar skin care treatment. My white tattooed ASS.

Kat gets the next date. “I can feel the electricity” sayeth the card. JP saunters into El Casa de Herpes and scoops up Kat to take her to an airport. They go on a private jet and canoodle, not thinking, as I would, about Lynyrd Skynyrd and horrific death via tiny airplane. JP and Kat change into nightmarish 80s style workout clothes complete with neon lights (????) and when they land, they run directly into a rave. It’s called the Electric Run in Salt Lake City, and there’s a lot of jumping and dancing and neon and strobe lights EVERYWHERE. I hope Kat doesn’t have a seizure disorder.

Date card: Amy, Danielle, and Sharleen aren’t getting dates this week. Wah waaaaaaaaaah.

Back at the rave, the music is thumping and the lights and neon are insane. It’s pretty much my worst nightmare come to life. JP drops “adventure” which is this year’s “journey” so act accordingly. He gives Kat the rose and we take leave the rave, hopefully never to speak of it again.

Commercials! My mom IMs me that the two dates thus far have been too safe and booooooooooring and how about some drama, dammit??? Word, mom.

The group date cometh. Kelly, whose profession is “dog lover” thinks the date card “say cheese” either means a photo shoot or eating cheese. She assures us she’s good at both. Oy. It’s a photo shoot with a guy with a bright green goatee. They’ll be paired with PUPPIES!!!! Lucy the Manson girl is worried that a dog will pee on her borrowed shoes. All of the puppies are looking for homes. This whole thing is so sweet I’m sprouting cavities. The outfits are ridic, but the girls are all being good sports. Andi is only wearing a cardboard sign saying “ADOPT” and she’s not exactly happy about it. Fade to black.

Commercials! Bachelorette Emily has finally found love for the next five minutes and will spill about it on GMA tomorrow.  I will not be covering that, for I could not possibly care less.

Andi is still freaking out about basically being naked. She’s a lawyer and this is super uncomfortable for her. Elise is also just wearing signs but gets smart and switches costumes with Manson Girl, who has NO problem being totally naked. Crafty!!!! Of course she then complains about being in a fire hydrant outfit. MAKE UP THY MIND, BEESH. The photo shoot is really cute. Andi is still wigging until JP says he’ll be nakey too, and suddenly she has noooooooo problem with anything. Convenient, that.

Commercials! Oh Cottonelle. “I need a clean alley every time?” REALLY?

Cassandra has a son, and she drops that she’s a momma. JP is super cute about it. Renee almost gets a kiss, but not quite. The girls are getting stressy about the rose, so they drink heavily. Victoria is SHREDDED. She swears she hasn’t even had a full glass of wine, but they obviously forgot about the enormous bottle of vodka in her purse. This should be fun.

Commercials! My mom is getting foul-tempered that there isn’t enough drama. Patience, mama.

Nicki gets one on one time. JP likes that she’s a nurse and takes care of kids. Her hair is a MESS. Don’t get extensions if you can’t take care of them. But whatever. VICTORIA. She’s so drunk it’s embarrassing. She’s yelling and slurring and is a complete disaster. She humps the pool and says she’s going to save JP’s life by giving him the “hymen maneuver.” Take from that what you will. The other girls want her to dig her own grave. She wanders over to where Nicki and JP are talking and swears and walks away again. She wanders to the bathroom and BREAKS DOWN. Renee, who should be up for sainthood,  crawls under the bathroom door to be with her in the stall and Victoria is LOSING HER MIND. Full blown meltdown. She screams that she’s going home. The producers tell her she can’t leave without shoes. She starts running and locks herself in the bathroom again. JEEZIE CHREEZIE.

Commercials, thanks the lordo. The Lego Movie. Is apparently a thing that is happening. Wow.

She’s still in the bathroom, losing her mind. Manson Girl warns JP that Victoria is in the midst of a nervous breakdown. He sweetly calls to her from outside the bathroom stall as she wails and cries. She’s having none of it. He talks to the other girls about it and says he hopes they had a good time, regardless of the psychotic breakdown happening in the next room. The rose goes to Kelly. JP asks the girls to get Victoria home safe. Shantel agonizes “why is he so perfect?” I know, girlfriend. It’s making my job really difficult.

Commercials! Can Samuel L Jackson do every commercial? I would not complain about that.

The girls fret about Victoria while wearing bikinis, as one does. She’s meeting with JP and is magically all better after sobering up. He’s letting her down easy and obviously wants to flee as quickly as possible. She’s talking a good game, but JP basically says that he’s a dad and he has to take this seriously and she’s toast. No need for the rose ceremony. Just leave now, babe. Word, JP.

Commercials! An M&Ms commercial with Juan Pablo. Milk that cash cow, ABC!!!!

Everyone is nervous going into the Rose Ceremony. Cassandra really wants to talk to JP. He tells the ladies that Victoria got the boot. He wants to move on, starting with Amy. She’s a reporter and wants to interview him. It’s awkward and deeply stupid. Sharleen the evil opera singer feels like she was rude the other night, and might be changing her mind. She matter of factly apologizes for being cold to him, and he’s kind of taken aback. Sharleen comes back into the house without us knowing what went on. Cassandra is still freaking out. Her son is only 2 years old and she’s super emotional about the whole thing. My mom dismisses her as a “weepie” because she’s a loving and kind person when it comes to these chicks.

Renee (who is seriously the mom of the group) leads Cassandra upstairs and JP follows. Renee graciously exits and Cassandra weeps about her kid and how weird this all is. JP loves that Cassandra and Renee are mamas, and he sees them differently from the other girls. He’s all lovey dovey and he “gets” Cassandra because she’s putting her son first. We’ll see if she makes the cut. I’m not exactly convinced.

Commercials! I see Chris Pine in the same way I see Channing Tatum. I mean I see the appeal in a general way, but good lordo, They’re like cinder blocks with eyes. Blech.

Rose Ceremony! Kat, Kelly, and Clare already have roses. HARRISON introduces JP and goes back to his seventh martini at craft services. First rose: Cassandra. Nikki. Andi. Elise. Sharleen who looks like she’s about to vomit on my cats. Renee. Danielle with my name who we know zero about. Lucy the Manson Girl. Alison. Chelsie. Lauren. In swoops Harrison. Final rose. Christy. That means Amy and Shantel are gone. Has there ever, EVER been a woman of color to make it to the third episode? Ugh. Shantel cries as she and Amy are led to the unmarked van to never be seen again.

There’s a fodder special on Sunday. We’ll see about that. But definitely see ya next Monday, kiddos! Stay out of the champagne and off the bathroom floor!




I Re-Watched The Blair Witch Project So You Don’t Have To

Well. That was interesting. I just re-watched “The Blair Witch Project” on IFC out of sheer curiosity if it would hold up to the experience I had in the theater back in 1999. As my friend I saw the film with would attest, I spent most of the movie curled up in my seat with my eyes squeezed shut, mumbling “Nope nope nope nope” as the revolutionary (at the time) “found footage” movie unfurled. I was TERRIFIED. At any given moment, something horrific could have popped out in front of the camera. It never did, of course, but it COULD HAVE. And I have to say that after watching it in 2014?

It doesn’t hold up. But we shouldn’t judge it on that.


In 1999, viral campaigns didn’t exist. Hell, the internet was still dial-up. The marketing campaign for Blair Witch was ingenious. There was nothing at all in the marketing of the movie that said “wink wink, this is totes fake, we’re just shilling a movie.” There was a website back when our eyes were still bleeding from GeoCities and AOL sites that today would be laughable at best now. There was lore. There was a freaking BOOK. The filmmakers were clearly ahead of their time. People firmly believed this was a true story, and those behind the film ran with that. We had never before seen a “found footage” horror movie, and we were TERRIFIED about what was coming around the corner. And at the end of the film wherein Mike is against the wall and Heather is shrieking and the sound is distorted and everything goes black? I nearly shat my pants. It was perfectly terrifying.

Sadly, once you’ve seen it once, there’s no going back. The magic is gone. Of course it was all a fake. Hell, I was in a friend’s wedding with Josh. He was very much alive, and had all his teeth. It’s sad, really, that something that was so visceral and scary when you’re 21 and the internet was in it’s infancy is so….irritating now. I’m lucky that I live alone, because I was yelling quite loudly at the television, shrieking “just follow the stream! Just walk along the stream, it’ll empty out somewhere, and there will be people there!” Of course, logic like that doesn’t help a horror movie, and I guess that’s what happens when you’re 36 years old and your main problem is that the shaky cam is making you seasick.

But seriously, this movie will ALWAYS be in the history books. It birthed the shaky-cam. It birthed the viral campaign. And therefore it will always, ALWAYS be a historic horror movie. Even though we roll our eyes at it now, the scene of Heather apologizing to all their moms, and the last scene with Mike against the wall? Well done, movie. Well done.

Let “Blair Witch” live down in history. Don’t re-watch it. Just remember that there was a time in 1999 wherein you were so fucking scared of the woods that you never looked at a bundle of sticks the same way again. Don’t be that asshole who says “oh that movie sucked” because there was a time that it scared the ever loving shit out of you. Let it be that. Don’t be cynical.

But don’t re-watch it.